A Rose in December
by walkertxkitty
Summary: Chester finds a badly beaten woman on the prairie and wants to help Matt track down the man who crippled her.
1. Chapter 1

A Rose in December

**A Rose in December**

**Author's note:** This story has no direct connection to any of the episodes in the series. It's rather personal and was written for cathartic reasons; handle with care.

**All characters are copyright to CBS, I'm just borrowing them.**

"_A Rose, a cross, a flickering light_

_A brave face, cold and white_

_A voice, hushed by Heaven's right_

_All too soon._

"_Fool am I to grant this life meaning_

_To dream dreams not worth dreaming_

_While angels of death are silently scheming._

_Let me lay my hand upon your breast_

_And whisper sins un-confessed._

_I beg God in my loneliness_

_Tell me why_

_Why one so young and tender_

_Crushed like a rose in December_

_Lost forever and ever..._

"_I will be there _

_When your heart calls on me_

_Down from a star _

_On a wind from the highest heaven_

_I will fly._

_Now don't you cry."_

**-- **"Una Rosa a Dicembre" (English translation) by Gino Vanelli

**Chapter 1**

Everyone thought of him as a social city dweller, but once in a while Chester just had to be alone. The press of humanity infesting Dodge City overwhelmed him. He felt consumed by the urge to be anywhere but where he was. It surged through him until he felt constantly restless, always moving or fidgeting. He had to be out on the prairie, headed away from any trace of civilization. He took little: a bed roll, some trail rations, and one of the rifles for hunting.

Out in the open, with Dodge disappearing behind him, Chester lifted the hat from his head with a wild whoop and kicked the bald faced chestnut gelding into a fast trot. A grin of pure delight on his face, he rode low against the horse's neck reveling in the air of their passage swirling around him. Eventually the horse slowed of its own accord and Chester's wandering became more purposeful. He turned the horse north and west, up the Arkansas toward Cimarron, in search of pheasant or quail. He followed an old game trail which took him away from the stage road and up into the gently rolling hills surrounding it.

Dusk found him making camp in a grove of cottonwoods besides a small spring. Chester had had good luck that day and he had a brace of quail tied to either side of the saddle horn. The birds were dressed but needed to age a day or so; he'd snared a rabbit for his dinner. Coaxing the coals back into a cheery blaze and sipping the last of his coffee, he took note of the weather and determined he ought to head back to Dodge tomorrow. The sharp, bitter wind from the west carried a hint of moisture. The landscape had lost its last vestige of color, turning brown and brittle -- winter colors. It might even snow before he got back if the storm forced its way over the Rockies. Chester nestled more deeply into his bedroll and fell asleep.

By morning the storm had made its way over the mountains. A sparkling blanket of ice crystals covered everything and snow had begun to fall. Chester yawned and stretched before getting stiffly to his feet and shaking the snow and ice out of his blankets. With an eye toward the darkening sky, he decided against making a fire and packed his gear back on the chestnut. Scrabbling into the saddle, he pulled the brim of his hat low down on his head, buttoned his jacket and headed back toward Dodge.

The full force of the storm hit just as Chester made the stage road leading into Dodge. If his horse hadn't stumbled in one of the ruts, he might never have noticed it: a splash of color, out of place in the newly fallen snow, off to the side of the road. Curiosity and concern compelled him to check it out. He took the rifle from its boot, got down from the saddle and, after tethering the horse, approached for a closer look.

It was blood -- not a lot, but enough and where no blood should be. It looked as though something had landed in the snow there and then tried to run or crawl away. He looked for horse or wagon tracks and found them, nearly obliterated by the storm, heading back in the direction of Pueblo. A few feet beyond the blood spoor and drag marks, Chester found a single small print made by a bare foot.

He spent two more hours following the trail. It meandered aimlessly through the brush, heedless of obstacles, sometimes disappearing only to re-emerge as though whoever it was had crawled for a while or had lost their sense of direction. Chester despaired of ever finding whoever had left the tracks and was about to turn back when a patch of copper, bright against the bare branches and dead leaves, caught his attention. Using the muzzle of the rifle to part the branches, Chester bent low and peered into the leaf lined hollow.

_A woman!_

It was her hair, a rich shade of red, which Chester had seen. She lay sprawled on the ground like a broken little bird. Her dress -- what was left of it -- had once been of fine material but had been skillfully patched as it wore out. It could never be repaired now, however; someone had viciously flayed it from her body and left behind bloody welts. What remained hung in tatters and she had neither coat nor shoes. "Well, forevermore," Chester exclaimed, setting aside the rifle and crouching over her. "How did you get out here, all by your lonesome? Miss, can you hear me?" Tentatively he touched her shoulder.

A pair of terrified green eyes regarded him. She flinched and tried to slither away but had no strength to move further. Licking dry lips blue with cold, she croaked, "Please…don't hurt me any more."

"I ain't gonna hurt ya none." He added in a soft, coaxing tone, "I'd like ta help ya if I kin. You can't stay here, in this storm."

The girl searched Chester's face for the truth behind his words. The soft brown eyes reflected compassion and concern; his mouth turned twisted in a grimace of empathy. Finding nothing threatening there, she held out a trembling hand and grasped his with a desperation that nearly melted Chester's heart. "Are…are you a _good_ man?"

"Well, I like to think I am," Chester answered slowly. That seemed to satisfy her. Embarrassed, he ventured, "I …I got a horse tied yonder. Let's get ya back to Dodge so Doc Adams kin have a look."

With gentle hands, mindful of any injuries she might have, Chester scooped her up into his arms. "I swan," he muttered, "I've carried flour sacks that weighed more." She shivered violently against him; the torn dress offered little protection against the elements. Chester considered for a moment what he could use to warm her. The blanket from his bedroll was damp and probably wouldn't help much, even if he hadn't left the horse two hours down the trail. Without a second thought, he stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her.

Trudging back through the deepening snow took longer than it had to follow the girl's tracks and stole away his strength. Chester's thin, wiry body had never been meant for such exertion. By the time he reached his tethered gelding, Chester was exhausted and near collapse himself. Getting both of them into the saddle posed some difficulty but Chester managed. Settling her in front of him and cradling the girl in his arms, he urged the horse forward. "My name's Chester Goode," he offered, not knowing if she could hear him.

"Sadie," she whispered with a sound like a sob. "I used to be called Sadie before…." Her breath coming in ragged gasps, she wilted against Chester and closed her eyes.

His heart hurting for the things that had been done to her, Chester wrapped his arms more securely around her. "Don't you fear," he whispered into the auburn tresses, "I ain't gonna let anyone hurt you any more and anyone who tries," Chester said savagely, "will have to answer to me."

He kicked the bald faced gelding into a ground eating gallop.

"Listen to that wind," Doc commented as he sipped his whiskey. He and Kitty were sitting beside the wood stove in the Long Branch. "It's gonna be a bad storm."

"Hmm," said Kitty, looking up from her solitaire game, "the first one of the season usually is." She frowned, contemplating the order of the cards. "Shouldn't Chester have been back by now?"

Doc pulled out his pocket watch, took a quick gander and snapped it closed. He swiped thoughtfully at his mustache and then raised a bushy eyebrow. "By golly, you're right. He did mention gettin' back before dinner today. I reckon it'll be dark before too long."

"You don't think he's out there in that, do you?" Kitty asked. "Maybe I ought to go talk to Matt…."

"Knowing Chester, he's probably holed up somewhere on one of the homesteads, cozy as you please and eatin' 'em out of house and home!"

"I don't know, Doc. Chester usually comes back when he says he will..." Kitty cocked her head to one side, listening. "I hear a horse, coming in fast, and someone's yelling."

Doc snatched his coat from the back of the chair and crammed his crumpled black hat down over the iron grey curls. "Sounds like something's wrong. I'm gonna run up to my office and get my bag. You find out what's happening and get Matt if he's not already there."

Without bothering to put on her cloak, Kitty ran through the batwing doors and out onto Front Street. A crowd had already gathered but she pushed her way through until she could see what was causing the commotion. She couldn't help gasping. Chester, coatless, sat shivering on his horse with a thin slip of a girl in his arms. The front of his shirt was saturated with blood. "Matt?" Kitty asked, coming up beside him.

"I don't know what happened," he responded tersely. "Let's get him down off that horse and out of the cold first before we start asking questions." Turning to the assembled crowd, Matt raised his voice and said, "Break it up, folks. Go on home. You'll know more when we do. Doc's coming, Chester. Where are you hit?"

Through chattering teeth, Chester replied, "The blood…it's not mine, it's hers." For the first time, Matt noticed the limp bundle Chester held in his arms. "Found her out yonder on the prairie. Sh-she's in perty bad shape. Doc'd best hurry."

"Right here, Chester," said Doc reassuringly as he came up behind them. "Matt, help me get them both up to my office."

"I'll take her," added Matt. Reluctantly Chester handed her down into Matt's waiting arms. The marshal's large hands were almost tender as he took the unconscious girl from his assistant. Her pale face and frail condition caused a flow of dark emotion to play across his face. She was a very young woman, barely more than a girl, but with her face so badly bruised Matt couldn't better estimate her age. A raw slow anger began to build within him when he saw the bloodied rags and realized that her only decent covering was Chester's coat. Matt quickly schooled his face back into its impartial lawman's mask. "Can you make it okay?" he asked his friend.

"I'll do," Chester replied gamely even as he reeled from the saddle, staggering against his horse and nearly falling.

Kitty wrapped a supporting arm around his waist. "Come on, Chester," she said, "let's get you up to Doc's where it's warm."

Up in the surgery, Doc took one look at Chester and barked at him, "Get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death! Kitty, there's a towel on the wall rack. When he's dried off, wrap him in one of those quilts and sit him down in front of the stove."

"All right, Doc." Kitty tried to get Chester to do as directed, but he kept staring at the door with a worried look on his face. "Matt said he'd bring her up directly," she reassured him. "You can look after her when you've gotten out of those clothes and warmed up a bit."

"I'm a right mess, aren't I, Miss Kitty?" Chester muttered sheepishly.

"No more than usual!" she responded, smiling warmly at him to take the sting from her words as she tossed him a towel and primly turned her back.

The door blew open, admitting a swirl of snowflakes on the chilly air, and the marshal strode into the room. "She's losing a lot of blood, Doc," he said without pretense. The front of his coat, like Chester's shirt, was sodden.

Now that he was certain Kitty had Chester well in hand, Doc Adams turned his attention to his second patient. "Just set 'er down easy on the table, Matt," he instructed as he gathered his instruments. He soaked several cotton pads in a basin of diluted rubbing alcohol and began gently wiping at the abrasions. "I'll have to clean some of this up before I can see how badly she's been hurt."

Matt, his expression anxious, watched as Doc worked. What he saw made him feel a vague queasiness and the marshal was no stranger to all kinds of terrible wounds. He pointed to the open, bleeding weals lacing the girl's back. "Doc, those look like…."

Doc's mustache twitched. His eyes held indignation and anger. "Those marks were put there by a bull whip, Matt." He kept his hands steady as be began the task of sewing the welts closed with small, neat stitches but his voice shook. "Anyone who would do that to a child ought to be drawn and quartered with salt rubbed in what's left afterward!"

The marshal winced at Doc's vehemence but privately agreed with the assessment. "That won't be necessary, Doc. If I can find the one responsible, I'll bring 'em in and we'll let the courts take care of it." He let his voice harden, emphasizing those last words.

"We'll let you handle it," Doc responded as he continued his examination. He frowned as he ran his hands along her arms, legs, and ribs. "Either she's the clumsiest girl in Kansas or someone has really been working her over for some time. I can feel multiple old breaks, none of them properly tended. That'll pain her some in this cold weather. I don't know that she'll ever walk on those legs properly again. The long bone is broken, snapped clean in half, but the injury had to have happened a few days ago. Give me a hand here, Matt. I need to re-set the bone but it's going to take some effort."

They had just begun the grueling work of putting traction on the bone so that Doc could put it back into place when the girl regained consciousness with a sobbing groan. Her eyes went wide in fear when she saw the marshal and she shrank away from him. "No need to be afraid, miss," Matt tried to assure her. "I'm just helping Doc here. You're safe now."

"No," she responded in a low whisper of disbelief. "No, I don't believe you. You'll hurt me. Chester!" she shrieked. "Chester, help me!"

Chester stood on shaky legs and wobbled over to the exam table. One hand clutching the quilt around him, he used his other hand to stroke the girl's hair back from her forehead. "Right here," he said. "Don't you fret, they won't hurt you none. They're my friends."

She turned her head aside, buried it in Chester's thigh, and sobbed piteously, "Please, Chester, don't let him near me. You promised!"

"Mr. Dillon," Chester said, his voice uncharacteristically stern and protective, "I think maybe you'd best go. You're upsetting her."

Matt, hurt and confused, looked at Doc for affirmation. "She does seem to be afraid of you," Doc conceded. "It might be better if you weren't here. Kitty can help me set that bone. The girl won't be in any condition to answer questions until morning anyhow."

"I'll be in my office." Matt strode out the door, the muscles of his shoulders tense with suppressed emotion.

"Matt." Kitty stopped him on the landing and placed a hand on his arm. Just having her touch him made Matt feel less like a monster. "Matt, it isn't personal. Whatever happened to that poor thing was awful bad. She isn't thinking clearly now. Give her time to mend and get used to you. She'll come around."

"Uhn-huhn." His hand tightened into a fist. A furtive glance around showed him they would not be observed and he risked a quick kiss on Kitty's cheek. "Come by later, Kitty, and we'll go to supper."

She smiled at him. "All right, Matt. Be careful."

He tipped his hat to her and flashed a lopsided grin. "I generally am."


	2. Chapter 2

"A Rose, a cross, a flickering light

**A Rose in December**

**All characters are copyright to CBS, I'm just borrowing them.**

"_A Rose, a cross, a flickering light_

_A brave face, cold and white_

_A voice, hushed by Heaven's right_

_All too soon._

"_Fool am I to grant this life meaning_

_To dream dreams not worth dreaming_

_While angels of death are silently scheming._

_Let me lay my hand upon your breast_

_And whisper sins un-confessed._

_I beg God in my loneliness_

_Tell me why_

_Why one so young and tender_

_Crushed like a rose in December_

_Lost forever and ever...._

"_I will be there _

_When your heart calls on me_

_Down from a star _

_On a wind from the highest heaven_

_I will fly._

_Now don't you cry."_

**-- **"Una Rosa a Dicembre" (English translation) by Gino Vanelli

**Chapter 2**

As Matt went on his rounds, he made discreet inquiries of the shop proprietors and businessmen about the girl Chester had brought in. No one had heard anything useful or seen anyone suspicious. He decided to make one more stop before meeting Kitty for supper and sauntered into the stage depot.

The sleepy ticket agent looked up from the dime novel he was reading when he heard the door open and greeted, "Good evening to you, Marshal! Anathin' I kin he'p ya with?"

Matt smiled tightly. "As a matter of fact, you can. I need to know about the passengers on the stage that came in from Pueblo earlier today and any stops it made."

The ticket agent opened the leather ledger in front of him and scanned through the information. "That run had three passengers, two men and a woman. They didn't make no other stops."

_So she most likely _was_ a passenger on that run._ The information didn't tell Matt how she had gotten off the stage or come to be in such rough condition but he had an unpleasant suspicion of how it had happened. "Did you see them arriving? Can you describe them?" Matt asked.

"I don't rightly recall," the ticket agent responded. "Come to think of it, I didn't see but the two passengers getting off."

"I'll need to talk to the driver," Matt said. "Where can I find him?"

"Jim's over to the Lady Gay having a beer. You might catch up with him there."

"Thanks." The cold wind howling between the clapboard buildings slammed into Matt as he exited the stage depot. He pulled his Stetson down lower over his eyes and made his way to the Lady Gay. He and Jim had a casual friendship; it would not look amiss for him to be seen talking to the stage driver. "Evening, Jim," he greeted the man.

Jim took a pull at his beer and then signaled the bartender to bring one for Matt as well. "Evening, Marshal. Heard you been looking for me."

"Was there anything…unusual…about this evening's run from Pueblo?"

"I'll tell you, Marshal, it was the strangest run I've been on in a spell. Didn't have but the one passenger at Pueblo and she didn't have no baggage. Sickly looking little thing, poorly dressed for the weather, but she had the fare so I took 'er on. Picked up two men at way station just outside a' Garden City. Looked like Pinkerton types, maybe, real interested in that bitty female. The three a' them had some sorta scuffle at the last way station but I didn't investigate. I wanted to get here afore the storm broke on us."

"Well, did you see the girl get back on the stage?"

Jim had to think about that one for a moment. "Now you mention it, I sure didn't but it ain't unusual for passengers t' change destinations along the way or t' miss the stage."

"Uh-huh. Sure. Can you describe those men or tell me where they went?"

"Well, sure, Marshal. One was kinda heavyset with short cropped silvery hair and cold blue eyes. The other was tall and thin, reddish hair down to his shoulders, and a dark suit. I don't pry int' passengers' business so I cain't tell ya where they went."

Matt finished his beer and clapped Jim on the back. "Thanks. You've been a big help."

There was nothing more he could do with that information tonight except keeping watch for men fitting that description. Matt decided to make his rounds one more time before heading over to Delmonico's to have supper with Kitty.

It was not to be. Poking his head into the Texas Trail, Matt spotted the two men Jim had described to him.

The Texas Trail was one of the worst saloons in Dodge, composed of little more than a rough bar and a few battered tables with patched legs and torn felt. The sawdust on the floor had been neither swept nor changed in quite some time. It was a place where people did their business quietly in the shadows and left before they were noticed.

Matt found the two men in the rear corner of the saloon playing poker. The cold-eyed one had a sizable stack of chips in front of him; his companion, nervously fingering his Colt, stood silent and menacing behind him. The redhead constantly scanned the patrons, sizing them up and either dismissing them or marking them for potential trouble.

Matt Dillon, standing a full head above everyone else with a US Marshal's badge pinned to his chest, constituted big trouble. Matt saw him nudge the shoulder of the older man, who said something short but kept playing his cards.

The man lifted his head from the cards and regarded the marshal coolly as he approached. The smile he gave was a predator's and made Matt itch for an excuse to go for his gun. "Evening, Marshal. A social call, I trust?"

"Not exactly," said Matt, matching the man's neutral tone as he hooked his thumbs through his gun belt. "Could I have a word with you?"

"Anything you say." He nodded curtly to the redhead and said, "Play out this hand for me, would you, Cheney?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Stitzer." The redhead called Cheney slipped into the chair and picked up the cards as Stitzer stood. "Over at the bar, Marshal," he said, "is that convenient?"

"It'll do," Matt growled shortly. He didn't like the fact that he'd have to turn his back on Cheney in order to talk to Stitzer but it couldn't be helped. Stitzer was heavyset but not overweight with a powerful build that suggested he was used to fighting with his fists. He wore clothing of respectable quality but not of the expensive cut Matt had come to expect of gamblers and procurers. Stitzer wore his silver hair cropped close to his head and kept his beard trimmed in a goatee. Matt studied Stitzer but could see no obvious gun. That didn't mean he didn't have one, of course. It could have been tucked away in shoulder holster or a pocket.

"What can I do for you, Marshal?" Stitzer's tone was courteous enough, although cold and clipped. "I trust we have not inadvertently broken the law." He raised a silver frosted eyebrow in a question. "Drink?"

Matt shook his head; Stitzer shrugged and gestured for the bartender to fill his own glass. The marshal pulled his hat lower over his eyes and regarded the man steadily. "You're not a gambler or a merchant," he said decisively. "Mind telling me what you're doing in Dodge?"

Stitzer took a long swig of his whiskey and grimaced. He set the half empty glass aside and stared up into the marshal's eyes. His voice was a shade cooler than it had been. "As a matter of fact, I do. It's a private business transaction and I'd like it to remain so."

"I'm making it my business," said Matt, deliberately stepping closer. "Now, I asked you a question: what's your business here?"

"Unless you've got something you wish to charge me with, Marshal, I strongly suggest you find someone who is actually breaking the law to bother."

"I'm going to find out what you did to that girl," Matt growled, pressing his advantage and hoping to catch Stitzer off guard. "You watch yourself while you're in Dodge or I'll have you in my jail and before a judge."

He was rewarded by a flinch and a slight narrowing of the eyes, but that was all. Having said what he needed to, Matt turned to go. The slight nod and a blur of motion from Cheney's direction were the only warnings he had. The marshal couldn't avoid the kick aimed at his bad leg by a rough looking man at the bar. He went down and a fight broke out. A wild punch grazed his forehead and, knowing the fight had been staged and was probably intended to kill him, he surged to his feet. Someone pitched a beer mug in his direction and Matt ducked. He drove a strong uppercut into the belly of the man who had just missed. Someone else came at him from behind, knocking him in the kidneys and knees again, but Matt stood his ground and managed to drive an elbow into his assailant's face.

Having gained a little bit of space around him, Matt drew his revolver, fired it once into the air, and bellowed, "Everybody freeze!" The room fell silent. A quick glance around the room revealed that Stitzer and Cheney had made their exit sometime during the fight. "I ought to haul the lot of you to jail," Matt muttered. In a louder voice he commanded, "Go on home. You men have had enough excitement tonight. I see any of you on Front Street this evening and you _will_ go to jail."

Without bothering to see if his orders were being followed, he stalked back to the jail. It was a good twenty minutes past the time he'd said he would meet Kitty for supper and now he would have to clean up before going to see her. He'd almost made it back to the jail without being seen when Ma Smalley intercepted him. Whatever she had been going to tell him was erased by the shock of seeing the marshal in such bad condition. "Marshal, what on earth happened to you?"

Matt halted, bruised knee throbbing and on fire, and used the hitching post to lean against. "What do you mean?" He knew his shirt was torn and stained but he didn't think he looked _that_ bad.

"There's blood on your face!"

He put a hand up to his forehead then looked at the smear of blood on his fingers in confusion. _I don't even remember getting cut._ "It can't be that bad if I didn't feel it," he said, shrugging it off. _Kitty's gonna be furious._ The bruises wouldn't likely show too badly until tomorrow but there was no way he could hide a cut that deep from her.

"Well, it's a nasty cut. You'd better have Doc look at it. But first, I wanted to tell you that the little girl Chester brought in was conscious for a while. She didn't say much, just that her name's Sadie, and then she begged us to keep everyone but Chester away. I got to get back but you make sure you come by and let Doc take care of that cut." Ma Smalley clucked her tongue in disapproval. "Marshal, I hope you catch the men who used her so!"

By the time he'd cleaned up, changed his shirt, and applied a rudimentary bandage to the cut Matt had to admit Ma Smalley was right; it needed stitches. He pulled his Stetson down low over his head so that it partially hid the bandage and then limped over to Delmonico's.

Kitty smiled when she saw the tall marshal come through the restaurant doors. As he made his way to her table, various patrons stopped him to exchange pleasantries or for a quick word about this or that. Finally, nodding apologetically, he excused himself and sank into the chair opposite hers. "Sorry I'm late," he said quietly, squeezing her hand. "Something came up."

He looked so tired and contrite that Kitty decided not to needle him about it this time. Inwardly, she sighed. _At least he _got_ here this time. _"It's all right, Matt, I'm sure it couldn't wait. Did you learn anything?"

Matt told her what he'd found out, purposely leaving out the part about nearly being pummeled to death in the Texas Trail, and what Ma Smalley had said. "There's not much to go on," he admitted. "I can't charge those two with anything until I have a definite connection. Being seen on the same stage with Sadie isn't enough."

The waiter, seeing that the marshal had arrived, came and took their orders back to the kitchen. Matt suddenly realized Kitty was staring hard at him in disapproval. "Er…something wrong, Kitty?"

"Matt," she reminded him, her lips pressed thin, "your hat?"

Feeling like a little boy who had been caught playing pranks in church, Matt removed the Stetson and set it on a vacant chair beside him. He heard Kitty's soft intake of breath as she studied the damage. "Now, Kitty…." he said, raising a hand to forestall the tirade he knew would be coming.

"Oh, Matt," she cried, not caring who saw as she skimmed his bruised face with gentle fingers, "you've been in a fight. You're hurt."

"It's not that bad," Matt protested, embarrassment turning the back of his neck red. He was saved from having to say anything else by the arrival of their orders. "How's Chester doing?" he asked, changing the subject.

"We're a little worried about him," Kitty admitted, setting down her fork. "Doc thinks Chester must have carried that little girl quite a while wrapped in his coat. How he got them both on the horse, we'll probably never know. Chester's not really built for that kind of activity."

"No, he isn't," said Matt slowly, recalling his friend's slight frame and halting gait. The enormity of his assistant's accomplishment in getting them both back to Dodge sank in. He didn't really want to think about the toll such heroic effort might have taken on the boy. "He'll be all right?" It came out more as a question than the statement he'd meant to make.

"Why don't you go over and visit him after supper?" Kitty suggested. "Chester's been asking for you anyway." She folded her napkin and laid it on the table. "I've got to get back to Doc's. Ma Smalley couldn't stay away from the boarding house for long."

Matt stood, put some coins on the table to pay their bill, and linked his arm through hers. "I'll walk you over there."

"Matt," Kitty said, laying her hand on his forearm as they were about to ascend the stairs. "There's something more you need to know about Sadie."

Her hesitation let him know that whatever it was, it was something which had upset her and was difficult for her to tell him. "Go on," Matt gently urged her.

Kitty's nose wrinkled in remembered distaste. "When I was stripping those…rags…off her and getting her into a nightgown, she had a brand mark on her shoulder."

"What kind of brand?"

"Matt, it…it looks like the imprint of a badge!"


End file.
